


Capitulate

by Antiquity



Series: With Miles Before I Sleep [2]
Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Family Feels, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 01:12:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10478718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antiquity/pseuds/Antiquity
Summary: “He’s gone,” Dick manages, voice strangled and aching as he presses the words into Bruce’s shoulder, “he’s gone, he’s gone, it’s all my fault –”“No,” Bruce interrupts, tightening his hold even more. “No, Dick, no, it is not your fault, don’t think it.”After Wally's death, Bruce tries to hold Dick together before he shakes himself apart.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing quite like the dose of feels provided by Endgame! I like Wally, I do, and I can only imagine what he went through with Artemis undercover in their greatest enemies' organisation, but the number of times he snapped at Nightwing, who was dealing with pretty much everything...well, my inner Dick Favouritism fangirl sniffed in displeasure and this happened. I know the Bats tend to compress (repress) everything under their stoic fronts, but sometimes something has to give - I just hope these two are still in character when it does.
> 
> Enjoy!

Batman approaches the tiny alley shrouded in shadow and slips between the two buildings, dodging pieces of rubbish as he goes. He reaches an unremarkable section of redbrick wall and begins to scale it swiftly and silently. He knows there are cameras tracking his every move – he helped install them. They are analysing his facial features and movement pattern to protect their owner from intruders and enemies, but he is neither.

He ascends to the third floor; the window is heavily tinted in its peeling wooden frame but under the flakes of paint are enough electronics to send several thousand volts through an unregistered visitor as soon as they either touch the glass or land on the broad windowsill. Batman is registered, so nothing more than a PIN pad appears when he depresses a brick by the window’s top left corner. He types out his code and lifts the window when it unlocks, sliding into the room with nothing but the rustle of his cape to announce his presence. He shuts, locks and arms the window behind him, and then pauses. The apartment seems to be empty, but he performs a quick sweep just to be sure.

This unexpected solitude allows him a moment of reflection. He has been back on Earth for two days and in the Batcave for one after spending that first chaotic night on the Watchtower. He has done what he can for the League, and after seeing Alfred he has acknowledged the weight of the butler’s argument that Gotham can survive one more night without the Batman when there are…more important matters at hand. Returning to find Mount Justice a pile of abandoned rubble and the team mourning the recent loss of Kid Flash to the invasion they had just succeeded in repelling is something he never wants to do again.

The memory forces a re-evaluation of priorities now that he’s here, and Batman knows that his own comfort is of secondary concern. It’s irrelevant that he would prefer to remain shielded behind his mask: it is a mask for a reason.

Batman slides his cowl back and Bruce stares at the dark kitchen. It’s neat and tidy, but unease makes itself felt when Bruce notices a fine layer of dust on the counter. It’s the neatness of absence, and any misgivings about his decision to come here disappear.

He’s just finished a glass of water when he hears the faint crunch of someone landing on the windowsill outside. Bruce waits by the electric clock on the microwave, allowing the faint glow of the numerals to illuminate his presence. He has come to offer what support he can, not a fight.

The window slides up, Nightwing slips in, and Bruce knows in that instant he is in the right place. No one knows Nightwing like he does, and his movements telegraph his distress.

“Dick,” he says quietly, and that name is a risk, a cautious opening volley in something too important to be thought of as a game. Nightwing startles badly as he straightens up from his landing, instantly reaching for his escrima sticks, and Bruce steps forward, hands up, cowl off. “It’s just me.”

Nightwing stares at him for a millisecond, the world suspended, and then is across the room in between one breath and the next, both arms flying up as he lunges forward. Bruce seizes his fists as Nightwing comes in range, holding him off, but though they both know it wasn’t precisely an attack, neither quite knows what’s supposed to happen next. Nightwing’s teeth are gritted and he’s straining forward, legs locked as he pushes, shoulders bunching as he tries to force his wrists out of Bruce’s hands, but there’s no real aggression in his movements.

“Dick,” he whispers again, uncertain, because he could overpower him, they both are quite aware of that, but that would be the end of whatever balance this moment preserves and they both know that, too. It’s no use thinking back to the days when things were simple, when Dick was small enough to curl up on his lap or wedge himself in between Bruce and the corner of the sofa; the years have weathered them both and made their edges uneven.

Nightwing abruptly wrenches himself away, breathing unsteady and uneven, and utters a hoarse little laugh.

“Terrible host, aren’t I? You thirsty?”

He makes his way to the tap, filling the glass Bruce used and gulping it down. His back is to the room and his hand is trembling; Bruce makes an aborted move towards him and sees Nightwing tense up even further.

“No,” he says eventually, remembering the question.

He stands there as Nightwing fills and empties the glass once more. He stands there and Nightwing stands there, silent sentinels of a shadowy kitchen, and they wait for the other to make the first move. This would be less ridiculous in the Cave, where dark brooding is part of the aesthetic, but if they were there, Bruce would not be the one facing Nightwing.

“May I?” he asks eventually, gesturing at the tiny sitting room separated from the kitchen by the small counter.

Nightwing hesitates, and then jerks a brief nod.

Bruce walks over to the couch, undoing his utility belt and his gloves as he goes, and lays them on the coffee table before he turns on the lamp by the far wall and sits down. They are the only concession, apart from the lowered cowl, he can make without any other clothes to change into. Nightwing, when confronted with his former mentor in full armour, will stand straight and will never consider yielding; Dick Grayson, when in front of his former guardian, is more likely to be persuaded to sit down and talk. He’s always been too good to Bruce that way, compromising on his own personas to allow Bruce his duality as Batman and Bruce.

Well, Bruce is sitting on Nightwing’s couch now, waiting, partially lit by a dim bulb in the old lamp, and when Nightwing joins him a minute later, sitting down at the other end in full uniform, he knows Nightwing has accepted his intention to remain. He also knows Nightwing is too weary to try and get rid of him: he’s expending so much energy on trying not to break that he’s begun to fracture.

They sit in silence, side by side, with the whole span of the couch in between them.

Nightwing is immobile, and he is truly still so rarely Bruce finds himself double-checking for the rise and fall of Nightwing’s chest. He’s staring straight ahead with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely between his thighs, and when Bruce half-turns towards him he gives no indication he is aware of the scrutiny. The fridge hums, the plumbing creaks, the numerals on the microwave steadily advance from 1:43 am to 1:44, 1:45, 1:46…

Bruce is lost in a maze of unuttered sentences – words are so dangerous, so volatile, that he can see why Dick liked to take them apart as if to see how they worked – but with oppressive silence comes memory. He thinks of a long and convoluted case many years ago, when Dick was still Robin, which had ended only because the trail had gone cold, even though there were three dead women waiting for justice Batman was not sure he could provide. Exhausted and discouraged, he’d lacked even the will to climb out of the Batmobile. He recalls what Dick for him, back then, and at last he thinks he knows how to proceed.

Moving slowly and steadily, wary of startling Nightwing again, Bruce closes the distance between them and reaches out for Nightwing’s forearm. The muscles tense but the arm isn’t jerked out of reach, and Bruce gently starts undoing the straps of the left gauntlet, the holographic microcomputer built into it requiring a delicate touch. When they’re all undone, he pulls the gauntlet off. Nightwing’s hand is cold, and the long agile fingers are still. He lays the arm back down and moves from the couch to kneel in front of Nightwing, cape pooling around him like liquid shadow. Reaching for his right arm, Bruce repeats his actions, and then places the gauntlets with his own on the table in front of them. Nightwing is still immobile under his ministrations, but his breath is coming more regularly now.

Bruce then unbuckles the thigh pocket for the escrima sticks. With the bottom strap loose from his protégée, Bruce can undo the belt the pocket clips onto and carefully slide it out from behind Nightwing’s back. He checks that the belt’s pouches are all closed, that the sticks are secure in their pocket, and then leans back to put it on the table. Before he straightens up he pulls a solvent pad from a pouch on his own belt and opens the little packet.

There is only one accessory remaining, and it’s the most crucial one. Crouched between Nightwing’s knees, Bruce has put himself at a lower, less threatening level; when he reaches up, he takes care to keep his palm up and hand open. Nightwing doesn’t react beyond a sharp inhalation, doesn’t lean away from Bruce’s outstretched hand, and Bruce can only take that as permission to continue.

Carefully peeling the right corner of Nightwing’s mask away from his skin, he dabs with the solvent pad along the revealed skin. Bruce goes slowly, unwilling to cause any pain by ripping glue from sensitive skin, and often stops to rub the solvent across the line of adhesive. One eyebrow is exposed, then under the white visor one blank blue eye is revealed, staring fixedly ahead…Bruce gently eases the mask away from Nightwing’s nose and continues his ministrations on the other side, finishing when he peels the corner of the material off Dick’s left temple.

He leans back, mask in his hands. Dick doesn’t blink, doesn’t fidget, doesn’t move: he just stares blankly at Bruce’s chest, head down.

“Dick,” Bruce whispers again, and tilts Dick’s chin up until he can meet his eyes. Dick finally blinks, his eyes focusing on Bruce, and even in this dim light he can see the helpless anguish within.

“ _Dick_ ,” he says again, and it’s a plea. A shudder tears its way up Dick's spine and Bruce reaches up at the same time as Dick collapses forward, knees hitting the ground with a jarring thud between Bruce’s own.

Crushed together in front of the sofa, Bruce tightens his arms around Dick’s back and can only hold on as Dick finally lets himself break. There aren’t tears, not for this kind of exhausted grief, coming as it does at the end of a year’s coordination of the kind of deep cover mission which makes dancing through a mine field look easy. It’s the deep, black, suffocating anguish that can’t be expressed or relieved simply through crying; they’ve both suffered it before, and again after Jason – both have drowned, and have been brought to shore, and to have Dick drowning again is something Bruce would give almost anything to prevent. Wracking, wrenching shudders tear through Dick instead, shaking his breath, locking his muscles; each is a painful full-body tremor that has Bruce ineffectually rubbing small and helpless circles on Dick’s back.

“He’s gone,” Dick manages, voice strangled and aching as he presses the words into Bruce’s shoulder, “he’s gone, he’s gone, it’s all my fault –”

“No,” Bruce interrupts, tightening his hold even more. “No, Dick, no, it is not your fault, don’t think it.”

“But it is,” he whimpers. “My whole end game led to this, he’d just got Artemis back and now he’s dead, Wally, god, Wally, I’m so sorry…”

“No,” reiterates Bruce. “You did not tell the Reach to leave the chrysalis generators, you did not tell Wally to engage with it, and you did not send him to the Arctic; it was not your fault. You saved the world, Dick.”

Bruce knows this to be the truth, there can be no other truth than this: Dick did his absolute best, and he saved the world. From what he’s gathered, the last six months have been the most difficult of the League’s entire history, and the knowledge that Nightwing helped pulled them through is a balm in his chest.

The terror at seeing Mount Justice reduced to rubble had been like barbed wire around his heart when the accused Leaguers had returned – thinking themselves so triumphant – but before panic could overtake his senses the team had arrived. Relief had been dizzying, but the defeat on their faces, the grief and loss, swiftly overrode it and he’d barked out an order for Aqualad to explain the situation, falling back on four years’ habit of turning to Aqualad as leader for debrief. In the hours after, Nightwing had kept his distance as he wrangled his grieving team back into a semblance of order while Black Canary brought the six absent Leaguers up to speed with a more detailed report. Batman had only had a brief moment to ascertain each of his protégées were unharmed before delving into the chaos.

Physically, they may have been. Now Bruce tries to hold him together as Dick shakes himself apart.

“You know the worst part?” Dick whispers many minutes later, voice hoarse and almost inaudible. “I was so angry with him. I’m still angry with him, and he’s gone now. I never apologised, never said goodbye; I’ll never see Wally again and a part of me is still _furious_ with him.”

Dick shifts, pressing his face into the curve of Bruce’s neck, and gathers handfuls of Batman’s cape in his fists as he confesses, “He went on and on about Artemis when she was in deep cover with Kaldur, how worried he was, how much he hoped she’d be okay…I thought he was my best friend, I thought he’d believe in me, we’d known each other for years before Artemis came into the picture, but he always seemed to doubt me, to demand reassurance Kaldur wasn’t a triple-agent, to make sure I knew the risks…I fucking knew every single risk we took,” he spits, and Bruce startles at the profanity from Dick, his happy-go-lucky boy, his calm, collected young man. “I knew how much we had riding on the deception, how much our friends would hate us – me, how badly everything could go wrong.”

He can feel the tremors picking up again in Dick’s body, and with a bit of shifting Bruce catches the edge of his cape to drape it over both of them, tucking Dick under it, safe against his side where he belongs. The material’s weight is comforting and their little shell protects them from the wide brutal world. Bruce often used to do this when Dick was young, when he was bright and mischievous Robin: on long cold nights on patrol, they’d find a vantage point staring out over Gotham and Batman would tuck Robin safe under his cape as they kept watch.

He’d never done it with Jason, and doesn’t do it now with either Tim or Barbara.

Jason had been older than Dick first was when he’d taken on the mantle of Robin and was too eager to prove his worth as Batman’s partner to risk being thought of as needing coddling, and Tim's Robin is more reserved; as efficient and capable as he is, he’s still relatively new to the colours and he'd never nudge Batman with that cocky grin and demand to be tucked under the cape to escape the cold wind. Barbara is different again, a combination of being older and being a part-time Bat, one not ‘officially’ sanctioned at the beginning and bringing her own family history of law enforcement in with her. She has neither wanted nor sought whatever tacit comfort Batman is capable of offering.

If he’d offered Jason more openness, would things still have turned out the way they did? If he’d kept him closer, tucked him under, rather than letting both Robins’ desire to fly free overrule his caution, would Jason still have gone off alone and never returned? But that is a can of worms Bruce can’t afford to open right now, not when there’s already a maelstrom of emotions tearing through them both.

In any case, the associations finally seem to be soothing Dick, and his breathing evens out a little more.

“He was blind to everything but Artemis,” he murmurs, and he’s weary now, defeated. “Like I didn’t have the Team to run, the invasion to worry about, Gotham to patrol, Robin to look after, Blüdhaven to watch over, League information to coordinate; it was like he didn’t notice you were gone, like he didn’t care I was running myself _ragged_ trying bring us all out of this alive…he fixated on Artemis’ danger and forgot about you in Rimbor, in hostile space, and I was so _angry_ when he waltzed in after we managed to derail the Summit and break the Light’s alliance, and just declared everything was going back to normal like your lives weren’t on the line. It didn’t seem to matter to him there was a piece missing.”    

Bruce convulsively tightens his grip until he knows he must be hurting Dick, but Dick doesn’t say anything. Trust this boy, this perceptive man, to go straight for the heart of matter. No matter how many walls he builds, Dick has always been his guiding conscience: it terrifies him as much as he’s grown to depend on it.

“You think you’re the worst?” Bruce rasps, whispering the words to Dick’s temple as if he can impress them straight into his brain and never risk their ugly truth out loud. “You think I can’t top that? Dick, I haven’t been able to look Barry in the eye since I returned.” His voice fails; he swallows and tries again, forcing the words out past the rubble in his throat because he has to try and alleviate Dick’s suffering. Dick deserves so much, so much _more_ , but if Bruce can help in any way, he has to, no matter that the words taste like ash on his tongue.

“He’s one of my oldest friends, he’s always been willing to suspend judgement and believe the best of people, and I can’t do the honourable thing and face him because I am relieved, Dick, I am fucking _grateful_ , that it was his nephew. What kind of monster am I, that I’m glad it was Wally, because _what if it had been you_. What if it had been you, or Tim, or Barbara; what if I came home and found out one of you had died in my absence? I couldn’t – I can’t - not again, not after Jason – Rudy and Mary just lost their son, Barry’s lost his nephew, and I can’t even look him in the _eye_ –”

Words chock up in his throat but he can’t fit them around his tongue, and he falls silent. He had a nightmare – he had numerous nightmares, in their cells in Rimbor’s dungeons, of all the worst case scenarios awaiting him – one night in vivid crimson when J’onn had left their mental link up. Suffice it to say the Martian never made that mistake again, and even Wonder Woman couldn’t look him in the eye without shuddering for a few days. When he saw Mount Justice destroyed, it was every worst nightmare come to life.

The seconds flick past, and the silence stretches out longer and longer. Dread fills Bruce’s chest. This is it, he’s gone too far: Dick will never forgive him now.

Dick just shifts sideways, taking the weight off his knees, and curls up against Bruce’s chest. “We’re messed up,” he says huskily, eyes red and puffy.

Bruce tentatively adjusts his own weight until he’s leaning partially on the couch. “What was your first clue?” he asks, and Dick rasps out a chuckle.

They drift for a time, content to count their breaths in each other’s presence. As of this year, Dick has been in Bruce’s life for more than half of his own. He’s grown so much in every way – they both have. Bruce took in an orphan because he saw something of himself in those haunted blue eyes, but it didn’t take more than a few days to discover Dick was entirely his own person, capable of becoming so much more than him. What he said to Diana five years ago has never been truer.

Bruce is running hazy modifications to the Batmobile through his mind, trying to keep himself awake, when he notices shudders are wracking Dick’s body again. “Dick,” he stumbles, clumsily rubbing Dick’s back again for all the good he can do. “Are you – are you hurt? Wounded?” He hastens to clarify, because of course he is.

“No,” Dick says hoarsely, “no, I’m just…sorry, I didn’t mean –”

“Don’t apologise, for god’s sake, Dick…what can I –?”

“You’re here,” he whispers, “Wally’s gone, the Reach has gone, it’s just…sorry.”

Bruce hasn’t had such prolonged physical, and, if he’s honest, emotional contact in years. His foot is so numb he’s a little concerned about necrosis, his cape clasp is digging into his throat, his arms feel clumsy where they’re wrapped around Dick’s back, and he wouldn’t be anywhere else.

“Dick, I’m…I'm so sorry I left you with all that on your shoulders. I am so proud of you. Do you hear me? You are better than I could ever be –”

“But I still became the Batman,” Dick whispers, and Bruce feels like he’s been punched in the solar plexus. He’s familiar with the feeling, no matter how much armour he has. “I still became what I tried not to be. I was willing to sacrifice everything, _everyone_ , for the mission, and I swore I’d never be like that…”

Dick had confessed this secret a few months after the Failsafe Mission, one night when Bruce had been the one confined to bed, badly injured after a routine patrol went all kinds of Killer Croc wrong. In the darkness, when neither had quite been able to clearly see the other’s face, Dick had rested the fingertips of one hand on Bruce’s forearm when the pain made it difficult for Bruce to sleep and told him about his own misgivings. He blamed himself for Batman’s injury, believing if he had been faster, stronger, smarter it wouldn’t have happened, and it had all poured out.

Batman had come to this conclusion already, given Robin’s sudden lack of interest in leading the Team after the Failsafe debacle, but hearing the fourteen-year-old confess _he didn’t want to be Batman anymore, was Batman angry…?_ had been more painful than any wound inflicted by the villains roaming Gotham’s underbelly.

At the time he’d done what he could with the meagre words at his disposal to reassure Dick he’d never meant for him to be Batman, and had the relief of seeing at least some weight lift from Dick’s slender shoulders. Bruce had told him he’d do anything to prevent Dick from turning out like him, told him that he wanted so much more for him than a symbol and the weight of vengeance on his soul, and told him he was proud of him. That sentiment in particular was true even when there were no words to speak, and was never spoken enough. Now hearing that Dick thinks his secret fear has been realised in Batman’s absence sends a fresh wash of pain and regret through Bruce’s body.

 _Forgive me_ , he thinks, _forgive me for bringing you into this, for fashioning you into my image in spite of both our best efforts_.

But that’s not quite it, and something eases in his chest as he considers it. “No,” he whispers at last, the syllable a familiar shape in his mouth tonight. “You are better than me, Dick. You are better than Batman –”

“But I still kept everyone in the dark,” Dick argues. “I lied. I forced them all to suffer and mourn Artemis’ death; I asked my friend to fake her death knowing she was leaving her whole new life behind her. What kind of fucked-up monster am I? Black Manta and Deathstroke almost killed M’gann, she almost irreparably broke Kaldur’s mind because she didn’t know, I hadn’t told anyone –”

“What have I said about interrupting me?” Bruce asks softly, almost teases, and is rewarded by a soft huff. “You are _not_ guilty. You are _not_ a monster. Listen to me, Dick. You could not have told everyone. If there had been any hesitation, any sign of letting Aqualad off easy, the Light would have destroyed you all. Without the information you gathered on the Light, the world would have been conquered by the Reach. I may have only seen Bart Allen for a moment, but whatever future etched those shadows into his eyes is worth avoiding at any cost.”

“That poor kid…” whispers Dick. “To exchange one type of grief for another.”

“But he has a future now, Dick. A proper one. Barry told me what he could about Bart, and it is worth it. You had to make some tough calls, some almost impossible ones, and you managed to bring it all together. When it came down to it, you trusted your team to do their best, you used the information when it was necessary, and you made it out. If,” and here he pauses, the words leaving a bitter taste on his tongue, “if you really think you exhibited Batman’s most difficult traits, think about the larger picture. I’m Gotham’s dirty secret, a symbol of justice in a city with a million inhabitants. You had the entire world to look after. Dick, you must know that you did what you had to in order to protect the planet from a hostile invasion. You had billions of lives at stake, and sometimes…” he trails off, aware that this is not the most supportive avenue to take, nor is it the best subject to broach when a friend has just sacrificed himself for the world.

“Sometimes you do what’s necessary,” Dick completes wearily. “I know. It’s just…”

“It’s hard,” murmurs Bruce, “especially when friends and teammates accuse you of not trusting, not caring, when it’s the opposite. There’s just so much at stake.”

“Exactly,” Dick says, slumping against Bruce, wrung out.

Bruce is barely aware of his fingers stroking through Dick’s hair. At this point, it’s as much for his own comfort as for Dick’s: the last six months have been the longest they’ve ever spent apart without so much as a notification - Blck Msk, Dock 4, 11.30 - shared between them. He’s missed so much, and not merely the whole Reach case. He’s missed the first anniversary of Tim becoming Robin, he’s missed Barbara’s National Volleyball Championship, he’s missed Alfred’s birthday, he’s missed Jim Gordon’s sixth anniversary as Commissioner of the Gotham Police Department, and he’s missed most of Dick’s internship with a software design corporation in Bludhaven, though god knows if he’s actually had any time to take off the mask and be Dick instead of Nightwing. Bruce has read through the reports, has seen how many video conferences Dick logged in costume.

“Come back to Gotham with me,” he murmurs at last, when he senses it really is time to move before his joints lock up. “For the next few weeks at least. I don’t want you alone here. It’s not – I don’t doubt you,” he says, as he feels Dick’s muscles bunch and then relax under his hands. “I know you took a leave of absence from the Team, and I commend that decision, but I’d…feel better if you were home, rather than being alone out on the streets in this state. Come home. Let Alfred fuss. Sleep. You’ve been in Gotham more recently than I have…you have valuable insights on the recent activities in the city. I would appreciate your help when I return – as both Batman and Bruce Wayne. Please.”

Dick is silent in his arms for a long moment before nodding once. “Okay,” he says.

It feels like every joint in Bruce body liquefies with relief. “Okay,” he echoes.

A minute later he releases his hold on his cape and allows the rush of cooler outside air to flood over them. Bruce goes to pull one of Dick’s arms around his neck, intending to lift him, but Dick shifts away.

“I can stand,” he says quietly.

Bruce swallows and quirks a terrible excuse for a smile at him. “I know,” he answers, and moves back to allow them both to get to their feet.

“Are you staying here tonight?” Dick asks, limping into his room with his gear. “It’ll take you an hour to get back to Gotham.”

“I…hadn’t planned…” Bruce trails off, and understands actually how little he had thought this through. Batman is not impulsive, and yet here he is. “I should go. I don’t have any clothes, and if anyone spots Batman leaving Blüdhaven in broad daylight after not being seen in Gotham for months it might bring you some unwanted attention.”

Dick steps out of his bedroom in sweatpants and an old T-shirt and goes around the apartment, checking all of his security systems. “Re-arm the window when you go?”

“I will. Tomorrow?”

“Day after. I have some loose ends to tie up here, and I should get some files ready for Kaldur and Barbara.” Dick yawns the last few words, and then looks sheepish.

“Bed,” Bruce says, gesturing him off. As much as he wants to see Dick tucked safely under the blankets, he knows it’ll come across as coddling and condescending when Dick’s trying to find his centre again. He’ll let Alfred badger them both about sleep when they’re back home.

Dick nods, rubbing an eye. “Good night, Bruce.” He starts to turn and disappear into his bedroom, but then stops and looks over his shoulder.

“Thanks,” he says softly.

“You’ve done the same for me,” he replies, barely loud enough to hear the words himself.

Dick smiles slightly and closes his door, and Bruce lets out a breath that feels like it was locked up under his ribs for half a year. There’s still a long way to go before any of the recent wounds are healed, but they’ll get there, of that Bruce has no doubt. They’ll get there together, the way families are supposed to, no matter how long and winding the road is.

Bruce smiles, and begins to make his way back home.

 


End file.
